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the security gate. This one, unlike the Williamses’, I was sure would be armed. Except for the cadenced roll of the surf on the other side of the highway, a sudden break in the light traffic rendered the spot eerily silent. A full moon completed a scene more suitable to lovers and werewolves than poor Archy in search of Melva’s offspring. I removed the penlite from the Miata’s glove compartment and dug the piece of paper Melva had so conveniently given me from my jacket pocket.
    Reading it, I was seized with what the French call déjà vu and what I call being goosed by the fickle finger of fate. The address so carefully recorded by Melva was instantly, and distressingly, recognizable. Hillcrest! A decaying mansion on Lake Worth.
    The fact that there was not a hill within sight of the place made the abode’s name as ludicrous as its vaguely Spanish architecture. I saw Hillcrest as clearly in the penlite’s circular gleam as I did the day I followed Lady Cynthia Horowitz to the house that proved to be her rented love nest. A nest she was sharing with my father, Prescott McNally.
    Rusted wrought-iron gates, grass sprouting from a brick driveway, and more then a few red tiles missing from the roof was the Hillcrest I knew—and abhorred. The fact that I had been following Lady C. in the line of duty—trying to find her missing stamps—did not lessen the shock and fury of my discovery.
    I convinced the lady to dismiss her lover in exchange for not telling her insurance company that her precious stamps were phony. I also returned the stamps that had never been stolen but given, by her, to the guy who was trying to sell them. Lady Cynthia Horowitz, in spite of her title, was far from noble. The lesson I learned, with relish I must admit, was that even Prescott McNally had an Achilles’ heel, even if in mon père ’s case, the weak spot proved to be a tad higher. Later, however, I did wonder if father’s affair with that oft-married septuagenarian with the Miss America figure was the result of Eros’s dart or the abundance of Lady C.’s gilt-edged securities. In father’s case I refused to give love the benefit of the doubt.
    To this day, Father does not know that I was the cause of Lady C. giving him the brush-off, and Lady C., when she’s not trying to seduce me, treats me with a mixture of distrust and respect but not, alas, fear. It would take more than Archy McNally to put the fear of man or God in that woman.
    I drove south until I came to a winding road below Manalapan Beach. This spit of land, between the Atlantic Ocean and Lake Worth, is so narrow that a kid with a good arm could toss a ball from the beach into the lake. I made a right, entering Hillcrest’s driveway, and came to an abrupt halt. Mine was the last in a line of cars parked on the brick driveway which I knew meandered down to a garage and a turnaround at the rear of the house. The noise coming from Hillcrest told me that there were probably more cars parked on the back lawn—a green expanse overlooking the lake and a decaying dock.
    On my last visit the place had been as silent, deserted, and mournful as a crypt. Now, with the lit windows and the sound of music, or what some call music, Hillcrest was more Studio 54 in its heyday. But unlike Studio 54, where many came but few were chosen, there was no guardian of the velvet rope to banish the many and welcome the few.
    At Studio Hillcrest all I had to do was turn the knob and walk in. The music was pure disco, the beat of which has always reminded me of how the ogre’s heart must have sounded when he chased Jack around the beanstalk. I found myself in a huge entrance foyer, facing a broad staircase. The center hall was flanked by archways to reveal two enormous rooms nearly devoid of furniture but overflowing with humanity. Rather young humanity. I could see makeshift bars set up in both rooms, their surfaces crowded with wine bottles that never knew a cork. The air was so thick with the